


pantera entera.

by The_Glittery_Hedgehog_Ninja



Category: Bleach
Genre: Arrancar, Espada, Gen, Shinigami, Transformation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 19:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8502127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Glittery_Hedgehog_Ninja/pseuds/The_Glittery_Hedgehog_Ninja
Summary: To set a precedent for the rest of the Espada, Aizen uses the Hōgyoku to transform Grimmjow into a shinigami as punishment for his unwarranted ambush of Karakura Town. Grimmjow is hellbent on taking his revenge on Aizen; the man stole his Arrancar pride and relegated him to serving as a "lowly shinigami", so to regain power and train in the ways of his new form, he forges a precarious alliance with the Gotei 13. With the Winter War on the horizon, how will the tides change with the former Sexta switching sides?Semi-AU, obviously.





	1. the death of the arrancar inside of me.

**Author's Note:**

> A.U of Aizen punishing Grimmjow for taking his Fracción to Karakura Town. Kaname is not present in this scene, nor is Gin.

He hated the silence.

Silence belonged to Ulquiorra; to those who preferred to think instead of do.

Silence promoted a conscious thought, and he preferred unrepressed action.

Silence was thick and harrowing and far too suffocating in a place like that of Hueco Mundo.

Silence dictated that he was not in control.

So why was it that he was standing before Lord Aizen, in complete silence?

At least it wasn't submissive silence, and that alone was enough to comfort him.

He refused to keep his head bowed—he had more self-respect than that.

No apology occupied his lips, and there was nothing in the realm of defense that waned his resolve.

The rules were simple: They were his Fracción. He could do as he liked with them.

No shinigami—whether it be Lord Aizen or not—could tell him how he was to use his subordinates.

No shinigami was to tell when the Sexta was to leave and when to return to Hueco Mundo—not everyone was a robot like Ulquiorra.

He'd been told time and time again that he needed to work on learning to obey orders.

He thought maybe when Lord Aizen appeared that he'd finally learn to be a well-informed subordinate.

Turned out he was wrong.

"Grimmjow," Lord Aizen declared smoothly, interrupting his silence-induced thoughts.

He blinked and turned towards the insubordinate shinigami who stared at him through calculating eyes.

He knew better than to speak.

Lord Aizen continued, "Do you know what this is?" He held out a small crystalline structure, complete with a small purplish-blue orb nestled inside it.

Grimmjow gritted his teeth at the immense power emanating from the object. "Of course I do." Was his master stalling? Where was the expected and promised punishment?

Aizen raised his eyebrow, expecting the Espada to elaborate.

"It's the Hōgyoku," Grimmjow finished, glancing at the item his master spoke so highly about.

Said master hummed approvingly. "Correct. One of the most valued and powerful items in the entire world." He turned his gaze from the Hōgyoku to Grimmjow. "And do you know it has the power to do?"

He felt a part of him scream. Did his master think he was stupid? "Yeah, it has the power to blur the line between shinigami and Hollow, see people's true desire, manifest whatever you want, that sort of thing."

"Close," Aizen chided. "But not quite." He twirled the precious object in his fingers. "Combine the last two items you said. It sees into people's true desires and renders a manifestation of whatever that happens to be."

And here he thought he was going to be executed or something. Instead, he was getting an information dump. He'd yet to decide which one was worst.

"My theory," Aizen suggested. "What if by blurring the lines between the power of shinigami and Hollows, it allowed shinigami to become Hollows completely?" He gave a teasing smile. "Or in your case, vice-versa?"

Grimmjow took a step back. "What the hell do you mean?" Why would anyone want to become a shinigami?

Aizen took a step forward. "Save for a few, the shinigami are my enemy. They are a destructive force that stands in my way. Anyone who is not for me is against me, and anyone who stands with the Gotei 13 in turn, are my foe."

He felt his hair stand on end.

Aizen showed no sign of stopping. "And should anyone be a shinigami not loyal to me, they will be annihilated. Destroyed." He turned to Grimmjow with a questioning air. "Do you classify yourself as a Hollow, Grimmjow?"

Grimmjow bit his lip to keep a snarl from escaping them. He always forgot who he was talking to. "Yeah."

"And have you had the konsō performed on you?" Aizen asked.

He shook his head defiantly. "Of course not." That's what made him a Hollow.

"True," Aizen declared, twirling the Hōgyoku in his fingers. "And should you have the konsō performed on you, you would be considered sinless, and would be admitted into the Soul Society, no questions asked." He raised an eyebrow. "But should the konsō not be performed and yet you become a shinigami through clandestine means and you die a second death, you'd be sentenced to Hell."

The Sexta fought the urge to roll his eyes. "But I'm already sentenced to Hell, anyway—that's part of being a Hollow. Any why do you keep saying I'm a shinigami?"

Aizen grinned, malice filling his eyes. "Because, Grimmjow," he slurred, "you disobeyed my orders, and I must set a precedent for the rest of the Espada. You left Hueco Mundo with no permission and with none but members of your Fracción. What kind of leader would I be had I let such an offense go unpunished?"

He gulped—although he dared not let himself show any fear. If he had any inkling to as to what Aizen was planning, he was definitely in trouble. "What the hell do you plan to do?" he asked, a small pit of dread filling his stomach as he watched Aizen imbue the Hōgyoku with ounces of his reiatsu.

The former 5th Division captain yanked him by the collar of his jacket and smirked. "How much do you hate shinigami?" he asked, completely avoiding the question.

Grimmjow struggled under his shinigami master's iron grip and grit his teeth. "More than you'd ever know." He realized the irony in his words, but chose to keep silent.

"So be it," Aizen declared, his fingers tightening around the Espada's collar. His smirk grew wider as he leaned close. "I'm going to destroy you Grimmjow, from the inside out. You'll lose everything—starting with your pride. I know you're no Byakuya Kuchiki in the realm of dignity, but anyone who dares call themselves a man—Hollow or otherwise—can lose everything and survive, save for his self-worth and honor." The Hōgyoku glowed in his hand. "I'm going to do what can harm your spirit the most—"

"Cero!" Grimmjow yelled, using all his strength to rip himself free; he used the rest to conjure up a ball of spiritual energy. He no longer was comfortable with this master; Aizen should have known better than to try and toy with a panther. Even though he would admit that _maybe_ his actions deserved a punishment—it was clear that his master's ideas were far from any sort of penance. Psychological torture would have been a better term, and Grimmjow was in no way going to tolerate that from a shinigami—even to one he pledged his allegiance to.

Just as the blast exited Grimmjow's palm, Aizen sighed and voiced, "Now, none of that." The Cero vanished into thin air.

Grimmjow's eyes widened. That—that shouldn't have happened. "What the hell did you just—"

"— _As_ I was saying," Aizen continued, raising his eyebrows as he wrenched his hands towards Grimmjow's throat. "I have learned yet another power of the Hōgyoku—it can transform Hollow into shinigami and shinigami into Hollow completely, no konsō performed and with no Visored training. There would be no secret 'Hollow' lurking inside you, and you'd retain weak shinigami power." He grinned. "Crushing you would be simple now as you are as an Arrancar, but could you imagine the humiliation you would feel if you died as a shinigami by my hand?"

That was the last straw. It was time for Ressurectión. Using one hand to try and pry off Aizen's hand from his throat, Grimmjow used the other to unsheath Pantera, the release command hot on his lips. To his horror, the Zanpakutō splintered into thousands of pieces and shattered to the ground.

Aizen hardly even glanced at the wreckage. "Stop trying to defy me, Grimmjow, my mind has been made up. This will be your punishment and when the time comes and the shinigami finally attack in Winter, you will be among their battlements, just as feeble as they are." He took a deep breath as if to reassure himself. Speaking quietly, he said, "Yes, the Hōgyoku tells me that this is your inner soul's worst form of torment." The former shinigami sprouted a psychotic grin. "I will take great pleasure in destroying you once you've returned to try and fruitlessly defeat me with the rest of the Soul Society."

This shinigami really liked hearing himself talk, apparently. The Hōgyoku couldn't tell inner torment, could it? And besides, he had no right to talk about punishing for insubordinacy—he himself had fled his former side. Yet, Grimmjow couldn't help feel uneasiness sprout from inside him—just what the hell was Aizen saying? He couldn't truly turn a Hollow into a shinigami, could he? The very thought made him sick.

To die as a shinigami would be to die as if you'd been deprived of power. He couldn't, _wouldn't_ , become a shinigami. Shinigami believed in purification and didn't start fights. Shinigami were never in control.

Grimmjow knew what he had to do; he had to keep fighting.

Even with Aizen's newfound ability to stop his Ceros and somehow shatter his Zanpakutō, Grimmjow gritted his teeth and concentrated, firing a series of Balas at his opponent.

Their hyperspeed seemed to do no good as Aizen merely sidestepped them.

The man gave an annoyed sigh. "What have I told you, Grimmjow? Such won't work on me, even now, the Hōgyoku is doing as I asked it to—it is depleting you of your Arrancar strength. Your Balas, although sonic to you, move at the rate of mere inches per hour, your Ceros dissolve into the air, and should you try a Grand Rey, it will have the same effect. The Ressurectión sealed in your Zanpakutō has been erased, and the sword itself grew so weak that it shattered." He turned to look at him. "And ask we speak, your hierro is melting away to normal skin and soon your pesquisa will become obsolete. Don't try and use your Sonído—attempt it now and you'll lose any mobility in your legs permanently."

Sure enough, Grimmjow could no longer sense Aizen's reiatsu but instead, felt himself double over at such power. His legs felt as if they'd been stretched and pulled until they were thin and weak as cotton. What—what was this? Why did the sense of powerlessness pervade him and vulnerability seep into his veins?

Aizen looked at him proudly, Grimmjow's transformation into a shinigami nearly complete. "Almost there," he narrated airily, his voice almost sing-song-like.

Grimmjow breathed heavily, both surprise and fear enveloping him. His electric cerulean eyes opened wide in shock as he felt a weight leave his face. The remnants of his Hollow mask crumbled to the ground. Excruciating pain carved into his body as if a thousand blades had embedded themselves into his now-shinigami-like skin, shoving deep into his flesh. His face felt like it was burning off. An animalistic scream exited his mouth, and he tasted blood on his tongue.

He tried to raise his arm—he needed to know he could resist, but his muscles wouldn't obey him. His body felt dead, numb. Stupid Aizen.

"It's nearly over," Aizen noted. "Last step is for you to becoming fully shinigami. I hardly think fixing your most Hollow-esque feature will be too much of a struggle."

Grimmjow coughed, a smattering of blood exiting from his mouth. "Y—you bastard. I—I'll kill you."

He received no response.

Then, Grimmjow felt it. It was slight, but it was a sensation he'd never felt before. He suddenly knew what Aizen meant about fixing his most 'Hollow-esque' feature. For a moment, the pain subsided, and he was shakily able to draw his hand to his abdomen. His eyes widened.

Where there was once a Hollow hole, there was now fully-formed flesh.

"Congratulations, Grimmjow, you've finally become a shinigami. Don't try and use your powers yet because they're not fully developed." Aizen reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small object, reaching for Grimmjow's back. "Anyways, sleep for now. Soon you'll be sent into the Soul Society and we'll see how the Gotei 13 will handle you. I look forward to seeing you try to defeat me one day." He laughed, and the former Espada heard his boot heels _click_ - _clacking_ on the floor of Las Noches. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

And that was the last of what Grimmjow remembered before losing all sense of consciousness.


	2. birth of the shinigami decaying inside me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Powerless seems to be Grimmjow's new middle name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're confused in the beginning, that's totally fine. Everything will be explained in due time.

Grimmjow faded in and out of consciousness for a spell. There was little he'd recall later, and for the few times he felt himself suffer the agony of being awake, he'd force his eyes shut and his mind into a blank slate.

Ensconced in darkness, he'd let himself think it was downright shitty that that damn bastard Aizen had kept him alive. Death would have been _so_ much sweeter. But he'd remind himself: death in a shinigami body was _not_ an option. Aizen was a cunning genius—he'd _known_ Grimmjow would refuse to let himself take the easy way out and get himself killed while in the body of a shinigami, lest he seem weak. And he _knew_ that Grimmjow would suffer in the body of a shinigami for as long as it took for him to regain his Arrancar form or to completely mutilate Aizen for torturing him in such a way, whatever came first.

He hated it; all he could _do_ was think. Paralysis had taken root of his limbs, and he'd yet to know where he was—Aizen had said he was sending him into the Soul Society, but he had nothing to confirm his whereabouts. His pesquisa, having been wiped clean, served no purpose, but he _swore_ he could sense vague depressions of reiatsu. Any feelings he got were blurry and shots in the dark at best.

The only things that pierced through Grimmjow's cloud of self-imposed forgetfulness were the voices. He had trouble identifying them, but an inkling told him that he was in the World of the Living.

" _Well_ , Tessai, what have we got here?" He heard a soft gasp. "Hey, isn't this that Arrancar that attacked Ichigo? What's he doing here?"

"Ururu, stop staring. He's not _that_ beautiful."

"I—I wasn't staring! I promise!"

"Hey—Kisuke, how'd he get in the shop?"

"Don't know, Jinta. I just got here a minute ago, and he was just layin' there." The voice sighed and paused. "Well, what are we going to do with him? We can't very well keep an Arrancar here—even if he looks like he just saw Death himself."

A moment of silence passed.

" . . . Kisuke? Why isn't he admitting any reiatsu?"

"Hm, I noticed that too, Ururu. Look, he doesn't even have his mask, and his Hollow hole's been filled. I wonder . . ."

Grimmjow, although numb to the bone, could feel himself being jolted, and felt his soft, shinigami face being smashed onto the ground as he was flipped onto his stomach, exposing his backside. He heard a loud gasp from the voice and then an aggravated moan. The sound of geta rushing across the ground echoed in the room.

"Tessai, help me open a senkaimon. This one's got to go to the Soul Society."

* * *

Something was happening, he knew it.

His mind wouldn't, _couldn't_ , go back to sleep.

Grimmjow tried countless times to force his consciousness back into the state of forgetfulness that it had been before, but to his disappointment, it buzzed with excitement, and any efforts to calm it were fruitless. The air was so full of reishi that any forced submission couldn't quiet his mind and make it submit to the fuzzy blackness that it had inhabited before.

That was when he realized.

He could fully sense reiatsu again.

It wasn't akin to the acute and hypersharp awareness he was used to when using his pesquisa, but it was significantly greater than the vague blurs that he had sensed in the World of the Living. He felt no power so overpowering that he was forced to cower weakly but that was hardly a problem as he could tell that his body was already lying down.

Grimmjow could feel the blood in his veins and perceived a twitch in his arm to know that he was no longer paralyzed and dead to the world. His legs itched to draw himself up and question his surroundings, but he couldn't bring himself to move, much less open his eyes and glare at whoever happened to by nearby—if there _was_ anyone. He'd yet to hear voices.

Having spent the time since his horrid transformation into a shinigami holed up in his mind, Grimmjow was reluctant to recede from his place of darkness. Yes, it was imperative that he returned to Hueco Mundo and completely _dismember_ Aizen, and he longed to grasp Pantera by the hilt and watch dark red trickles of blood from his slaughtered drip down its blade, but . . . he couldn't bring himself to leave.

Leaving his mindscape would force him to admit that indeed, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez was no longer an Espada—not an Arrancar—not an Adjucha—not a Hollow at all. He'd have to live with himself as a shinigami. A shinigami with a shattered Zanpakutō.

The realization shocked him enough that he was able to force himself to open his eyes wide in disbelief. Pantera had been shattered by the Hōgyoku; he'd watched the blade splinter into thousands of bits with his own eyes. His Ressureción and Hollow forms were gone. Yes, he had his strength—he hoped—, but what good was he without his blade? Grimmjow's gaze drifted towards the thick black strap of his hakama, where his Zanpakutō used to reside. What he saw forced himself to look again, disbelief evident in his eyes.

That couldn't have been right.

Yet, he saw it. There it was. Snug in his belt, rested Pantera, unshattered and fully mended. Was that even possible? More importantly, did it even matter?

Grimmjow made his first conscious movement since his transformation; he reached towards his Zanpakutō's hilt and yanked it towards him. His arm was wobbly and his muscles unstable, but his smirk was in full force when he stroked the murderous blade lovingly. He'd slaughtered _so_ many with this sword.

Without a second thought and any wishes of staying cooped up in his mental world vanished, Grimmjow leaped up and held out Pantera. His legs, having been unused for a long time, quaked under his weight, but he forced himself to stay upright as he examined his sword. Whoever had fixed it for him had done their job flawlessly; there were no traces of it ever having been shattered.

Instinctively, he extended Pantera outward and raked his hand across the length of the blade, yelling, "Grind, Pantera!"

Nothing happened.

He knew he shouldn't have expected any sort of Ressureción—but didn't shinigami have that form that their Zanpakutō expressed before they performed bankai? What was it called again? Right, shikai. Neither of the sort happened, and the sword remained in its original form—dark blue handle with a crooked "s"-shaped tsuba and all.

Grimmjow growled; what the fuck was wrong with his stupid Zanpakutō? Weren't shinigami automatically able to expose such powers based on their level of prowess? He'd been a Hollow for a long time—his abilities and length of training should have come hand in hand with his damn transformation, right? He would _die_ if he'd been transformed into a shinigami and not received his prior powers—he'd worked his _ass_ off to become powerful enough to earn the rank of Sexta. Aizen would pay with his life and then some if Grimmjow had to go through stupid shinigami training to regain any sort of strength in his sword.

He growled in frustration and threw Pantera to the ground, satisfied to hear the dull _clank_ of metal on the hard stone floor. What was the point of repairing a Zanpakutō if it didn't _do_ anything? He knew it was probably immature, but he landed an angry kick to Pantera's blade anyway. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Powerlessness was not a feeling Grimmjow was accustomed to and it was something he _loathed_.

He'd laughed at the Privaron Espadas for being weak and inefficient for Aizen's purposes, but where was he now? There was no point in ever attaining such power it seemed if in the end, you were to lose it to some half-witted, stupid ass shinigami who decided to take over Hueco Mundo with his shiny new Hōgyoku.

Growling, Grimmjow plopped himself back onto the cement floor and narrowed his eyes as he surveyed his surroundings, his anger still burning. The stone walls were gray, the floor was gray, the ceiling was gray; everything was goddamn _gray_. Didn't they have _any_ color here? It was hardly a step up from Hueco Mundo.

On the wall next to him was a stone plaque that had three lines stacked upon each other—the kanji for three—etched into it, along with what looked like a spiky looking flower. That certainly didn't tell him anything.

Grimmjow looked in front of him and saw bars, gritting his teeth. Bars meant he was in a cell. Cells meant he was captured. Captured meant he was a prisoner. Prisoner meant he was powerless—even more so than he was as a shinigami.

It was then that Grimmjow realized the extremity of what Aizen had done to him. Not only had he completely robbed him of his Arrancar pride—dismembered the Sexta position that he'd held so proudly—but he'd forced him to become the lowest of the low. Lower than an Adjucha, lower than a Menos, lower than a Gillian, even. He was a shinigami. A damned-to-Hell shinigami. A _powerless_ , damned-to-Hell shinigami.

Grimmjow balled his hands into fists, his eyes filled with furious resolve that only an Arrancar could bear; he wouldn't be a powerless shinigami for long, that much he knew. His mind ran in impulses, but this was less of an impulse as it was an oath.

He straightened his back, a sudden vigor filling him. Fuck Aizen. He probably thought that Grimmjow would become a shinigami worth for shit the next time he saw him—one who couldn't hold his own against Hueco Mundo's current master. Oh but, _hell_ , would Grimmjow prove him wrong. When the time for him to completely obliterate Aizen, Grimmjow would do it in one blow. He'd become so powerful that not even Aizen could stand it his presence.

And now the least he could do was assert himself and break out of this fucking cell. There wasn't any shinigami stronghold—or so he assumed it was from the overwhelming amount of reishi in the air—that could hold him.

Grimmjow stalked to the bars that contained him and lined up his arm. Propelling all his strength into one blow, he drove his hand straight into the skinny rods, and as he was accustomed to, expected the bars to bend to his will and snap in half.

They didn't.

His eyes widened in surprise when all the force he exerted onto the bars rebounded right back at him, and he felt himself crashing into the wall behind him.

"What the goddamn fuck?" Grimmjow yelled to no one in particular.

He squinted at the poles that blockaded him. How had they done that? He'd used all his power in that punch, and the bars should have splintered easily. He growled, and he could feel even more furious energy propel through his veins now.

He bunched his fingers into a tight fist and closed his eyes. "Cero!" There wasn't even a flicker of light emitted from his fingers. Grimmjow put his hand down, snarling. He'd forgotten for a moment that his Cero skills had been depleted. A scream cusped his lips as the realization again sank in. He'd said it once, and he'd say it again; he was going to _fillet_ Aizen when he got out of this damned cell. Yank out his heart from his still-bleeding body and make him eat it whole. The idea sent excited tingles up his spine.

Grimmjow smacked the cell bars once more, less forcefully this time, and again, the power was rebounded back at him. He felt a whisper of pain that should never had transpired had he still donned his hierro. Shinigami skin was too soft for the wounds he was used to sustaining.

His patience was reaching the end of its limits; either these bars went down or him. Grimmjow reared his arm for one final punch. It pleased him more than anything when he realized that his physical strength and endurance had yet to be erased since his transformation. A soundless roar echoed from him as he called upon every ounce of energy residing in his body and propelled his fist straight into the rods. A hollow scream of pain spewed out his mouth when his bloodied hand ricocheted off of the bars and threw him back into the wall.

For a moment, Grimmjow did nothing but stare at the cell bars murderously before shifting his attention to his bleeding and abused hand. The pain—which he'd hardly ever felt before from doing a simple task as fleeing from imprisonment—would have interested him, had the horrible feeling not spread from his hand all the way to his toes and made his body go numb again. This time, though, to his eternal relief, he still had complete mobility of his appendages.

Suddenly, he heard the soft sound of multitudinous footsteps. A shock of curiosity coursed through him—a breakout was much appreciated, even though he'd have to kill his would-be helpers, though. Couldn't have anyone think that he was _indebted_ to them, or something.

To his surprise, instead of possible assailants or fellow criminals preparing a prison breakout, stepped out a blond-haired man—five foot eight, Grimmjow assumed—wearing a hideous shinigami uniform, and behind him stood a fleet of masked guards, armored with more weapons than he though anyone had the guts to carry. The man's face betrayed no emotion, although his eyebrows were poised in a way that made him look perpetually depressed.

He reminded Grimmjow of Ulquiorra with his almost vacant eyes, and he felt the incessant need to chop off all of the man's extremities and feed them to Yammy's stupid dog, Kukkapurro.

Grimmjow felt a familiar snarl crest his face.

"Don't try anything, Arrancar," the shinigami warned diplomatically, his hand poised on his sword. "My name is Lieutenant Izuru Kira and I will be escorting you to Captain-Commander Yamamoto's office immediately."


	3. dawn of the perpetual powerlessness inside me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grimmjow fights Izuru.

"Like hell you are," Grimmjow snorted, his hand reaching towards Pantera as he picked the blade off the floor. He had to admit, he relished in being recognized as an Arrancar, but he refused to tolerate the condescending tone he imagined the shinigami using.

He assumed an offensive stance. There was no way some shit-for-brains shinigami was taking him to some dude when he was being followed by what looked like a legion of soldiers. It was probably for interrogation, anyway, and Grimmjow was in no way going to give up his short spurt of newfound independence to be cross-examined by some high and mighty 'Captain-Commander'.

The shinigami, who had introduced himself as Lieutenant Izuru Kira, raised an eyebrow and spoke an affirmative, "I am."

Grimmjow, although his mouth itched to argue, watched with his eyes narrowed as Izuru muttered something under his breath, and the door to his cell swung wide open. The second the barred door hit the wall behind it, Grimmjow saw his chance. It had been far too long since he'd felt blood on his hands, and he didn't care if he had to be a weak shinigami to feel it again. Grasping his Zanpakutō's hilt, he grinned his traditional madman grin and leaped at the shinigami.

A slew of swords blocked his own mere inches before he reached the lieutenant. Izuru shook his head at the protective guardsmen originally sent to detain the Arrancar, who now protected him. They fell back immediately and retreated to their posts, although several steps behind Izuru from there they had previously stood. He glanced at Grimmjow, uncaringly and dodged the blade. Grimmjow hated it when his provocations never fueled any fire, and he was once again reminded of that bastard Ulquiorra.

"What do you think you're doing?" the shinigami demanded placidly, his calmness sending poison through Grimmjow's veins.

He growled; what the hell was happening? This wasn't just _demeaning_ , it was annoying. He'd known few people who would try and avoid a fight so easily back in Hueco Mundo, and he definitely wasn't one of them. He heard a rush of air and widened his eyes to see Izuru standing beside him.

"Are you looking for a fight, Arrancar?" Izuru droned. He used another burst of the shinigami's version of Sonído—shunpō, he believed it was called—and dodged Grimmjow's next angry lunge. "You won't find one here. As I said, all I'm going to do is bring you to the Captain-Commander."

Grimmjow felt a howl escape his lips. This would _not_ do. Maybe Aizen had taken away his Espada skill and prowess, but he had forgotten to strip him of his insatiable need for bloodlust and vengeance. He may have been a shinigami in bodily form, but he was still an Arrancar through and through. He'd prove it.

"You shinigami are all cowards," he spat. "Before I destroy Aizen and _every fucking thing he created_ , I'm going to cut you down, one by one. Starting with you." He grinned and swung his sword at Izuru's chest and the lieutenant's eyes widened a bit before his reflexes allowed him to dodge it. "Ready to die, shinigami?"

Izuru merely sighed and stepped back to dodge Grimmjow's blind flurry of attacks. "If that's what you want, sure. But do you really think fighting me is going to solve anything?"

"Bloody hands will solve _everything_ ," Grimmjow thundered. He was surprised with his new shinigami endurance; he'd swung at Izuru at least sixty times, but his arm still had yet to grow weary. At least one thing had remained the same from when he was an Arrancar. It wasn't enough, though, he couldn't seem to lay a hit. _Damn Aizen, damn this stupid-ass shinigami body_ , he screamed internally, the anger propelling his next strike even more.

Izuru did _not_ look impressed. He dodged Grimmjow's blows with ease and watched mildly as the former Espada grew even more impatient with himself when he couldn't even cut his opponent.

Grimmjow let out a low growl. He remembered a time when he was so powerful that he had to _beg_ for that Kurosaki to show his bankai, and even then, he hardly had sustained any injuries when he was struck by a hurtling mass that the substitute shinigami had dubbed 'Getsuga Tenshō". Now? He couldn't even handle a shinigami refraining from using _shikai_. But he couldn't give up—destroying the shinigami that made up the Gotei 13 would have to come _before_ dismantling Aizen's body—there was definitely the prospect of having more souls to kill and mutilate and the chance to become more powerful.

Summoning every last ounce of his strength, Grimmjow roared and charged at Izuru with Pantera, his face a mask of inhumane rage and fury. This time, Izuru didn't even try to dodge the blade, and instead merely grasped the point with his hand and held it still.

The former Espada tried to wrench his sword free, but no matter the extent of his physical strength, the shinigami's will was far greater.

Izuru closed his eyes. "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this. You seem to revel in battle, Arrancar, and seem to prefer the violent path as opposed to the peaceful one." His eyes shot open and Grimmjow could see anger burning in his blue eyes. "Battle is to be feared and one must be terrified at the prospect of it. You don't seem to see that, so I'll have to you show your place." Still gripping Pantera, Izuru unsheathed his own sword, a plain-looking katana. He held it out and cried, "Raise your head, Wabisuke!"

Grimmjow watched, almost in fascination, as the sword morphed into one of the oddest looking Zanpakutōs he had ever seen. It had lost the curve of a traditional sword and had straightened into a rod that ended in two right angles. Was this Izuru's shikai? It looked harmless enough. It didn't even have a point—how would you be able to impale someone?

Immediately, Izuru shot towards Grimmjow, who had little time to leap backwards and dodge. The shinigami quickly tore his blade toward him, slicing in a diagonal motion closer and closer to Grimmjow. He grimaced; being on the offensive side was more his style and being relegated to defense had no place in his life. He used Pantera to try and defend against Wabisuke's blows, his eyes searching calculatingly for an opening. Izuru was efficient and left him none.

"Dammit, shinigami," Grimmjow growled, trying to unnerve his opponent into leaving him an unguarded spot to attack. "You really think you're gonna defeat me with some weird-ass blade that doesn't even look like a sword? Ha, you'll never win!"

Unfortunately for him, Izuru was nearly impossible to goad. The shinigami dutifully continued to swipe his Zanpakutō at Grimmjow. "If I was intent on 'winning' you would have died a long time ago," Izuru replied. "But the Captain-Commander wants to see you, and that means I'm to bring you to him alive. But," Izuru proclaimed, swiping Pantera's fuller with his sword. "I _am_ intent on putting you in your place."

Grimmjow could only imagine what 'putting you in your place' meant, but could only focus on the fact that for some reason, his Zanpakutō felt a bit heavier. He attributed it to the fact that his shinigami body had something to do with the weight shifting of his sword due to being out of Hueco Mundo—even though the idea seemed highly unlikely. It made carrying the weapon a bit more cumbersome, but Grimmjow wasn't about to let the weight of his sword dissuade him from defeating this shinigami.

He leaped to the left and out of Izuru's range of motion, buying himself some time as he tried to readjust the weight of the blade in his hands. He grabbed the hilt with both his hands now, how _demeaning_. Oh well, this just allowed more power into his swings, which he tried to use to his advantage.

Grimmjow felt a presence over him, along with a slight _whoosh_ of air and looked up to see Izuru looming over him like a ghost, his Zanpakutō held out before him. The former Espada, robbed of his Sonído powers, was only able to hold up Pantera as a shield to Izuru's oncoming blow and felt himself buckle underneath the weight of his own blade as Wabisuke struck it.

"What—what the hell are you doing to my sword?" Grimmjow growled as his muscles strained against the weight of his Zanpakutō.

Izuru's tone was light, almost mocking, as he charged again. "Did I not tell you? When Wabisuke strikes an object—living or not—he causes them to take on a weight double their own. You've been struck twice by Wabisuke's power, therefore, your sword is quadruple its usual weight." He watched as Pantera sustained another hit. "Now it's six times as heavier. This is how you will fall, Arrancar. By your own blade."

Doubling the weight of an object? What kind of power was that? Sure, Grimmjow could feel his muscles become worn and weary just by holding his Zanpakutō, but it was such an . . . innocent power, for a sword. Just what _kind_ of stupid powers did these shinigami wield in their blades? Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if someone held the power to heal in a Zanpakutō—a weapon that was meant to kill.

Grimmjow huffed and threw down Pantera, and he could _hear_ his muscles cry out in relief as he rid himself of the heavy weapon. "Yeah, so what? I don't need my sword to fight you." He smirked and cracked his knuckles menacingly. "I can take you down with my bare hands." He surveyed Izuru's build; he was lean with taut muscles and probably didn't do well in the strength department, especially since he seemed so reluctant to fight. Grimmjow was no Nointra when it came to powerful brawn, but he knew that being the Sexta meant that you sure as hell had enough strength to take down a shinigami whose special shikai skill didn't even have anything to do with _destruction_.

He reared his aim and grinned. "Watch out, I'm gonna punch you full of holes, shinigami!" Boy, did _that_ line bring back some nostalgia, and he relished in the fact. Punching Kurosaki and his shinigami friend had been so invigorating; he'd hardly even gotten time to do that in Hueco Mundo. He would have to call upon that feeling again.

Izuru raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?" he asked, his form blurring as he flash stepped out of Grimmjow's arm's range of motion. He raised his arm to strike with Wabisuke again, but thought better of it and resheathed the sword. He again disappeared and reappeared behind Grimmjow. "You should probably catch me first."

Grimmjow growled, his eyes trying to follow the shinigami's form as he continued to shunpō across the room, wildly throwing punches. "Stay—still, you dumbass!" _Damn it_. When he finally killed Izuru, he was going to learn how to shunpō—there was _no fucking way_ he was going to cut down the rest of the shinigami—or Aizen—without it.

Finally, after several rounds of blind punches, Izuru sighed and reappeared a few yards from Grimmjow, shaking his head disappointedly. "I'm afraid that this is taking too long. Captain-Commander Yamamoto was expecting you several minutes ago."

" _No one_ is expecting me because I'm not _going_ anywhere." Grimmjow bore his teeth fiercely. "As for _you_ , the only place you're going, shinigami, is the grave!" He charged at the blond lieutenant with his right arm out. Hell, he was going to make this his final punch—final because it would be all the shinigami's weak body could take.

Izuru gave another massive sigh and held out both his hands in a crossed position, and closed his eyes. "Bakudō Number 4. Hainawa!"

Grimmjow's fist never reached Izuru. As soon as the words left the shinigami's lips, a whorl of yellow reishi was emitted from his hands and twisted into a rope that found its way lovingly onto Grimmjow's shoulders. He felt his arms slacken against his body and become completely immobilized, and his legs twisted awkwardly in positions he never knew they could as he fell into a might-as-well-be-dead heap. He hissed angrily. _Not again._

"You bastard," Grimmjow growled as he struggled against the bonds. He was powerless again and could feel rage circulate through his bloodstream; he'd _promised_ to himself that he'd never feel this way again. He'd _promised_. Sure as fuck, Grimmjow didn't give a shit if he promised something to others, but promises he made to himself were things he kept until the day he stopped breathing.

Izuru paid him no mind. "Restrain him," he barked at the guards, who came quickly and efficiently tied thick, scratchy strands of rope over the yellow bonds Izuru had already put over Grimmjow. "Kidō doesn't last forever and we need him subdued until we get to the First Division barracks to see the Captain-Commander."

Grimmjow glared daggers at the guards who hoisted him up off the ground and held him by the arms to transport him. He averted his glare to Izuru, who watched with that ever-depressed and tacit gaze of his. "I'll kill you, shinigami," he spat murderously.

Izuru turned his head and walked before them, leading the way. "I'll hold you to that, Arrancar."


	4. uprising of the new beginning inside me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the Captain-Commander is a bit OOC, it was difficult writing him. Also, sorry for my shitty Japanese. Google Translate can only do so much! Please enjoy!

He refused to look anywhere but down as the guards dragged him across the Third Division barracks. There was no need to admit defeat just yet, and just because Izuru had totally kicked Grimmjow's ass, he wasn't going to surrender anytime soon. The lieutenant's blood would soon be on his hands, he was sure of it.

The guards then came to an abrupt halt. The sudden stop caused them to lose their grip on Grimmjow and he fell to the ground in a heap.

Although his back burned from the scrape of the fall, Grimmjow seized the opportunity, and now that nobody was there to restrain him, flexed his muscles in attempts to rid himself of the bonds the guards had tied on him (the yellow reishi kidō had worn off a few minutes prior, as Izuru had predicted).

The bonds looked like ordinary rope, but as his sinuous and muscular arms contracted with no avail in tearing them, Grimmjow could tell they were far from normal. Every twist of the rope resulted in it exposing light green reiatsu that reformed it back together as soon as his strength shredded a portion.

Grimmjow growled. More shinigami powers that he had yet to learn of? Imprisoning rods that ricocheted any power you exerted back on you and now unbreakable rope?

"It's rope held together by my reiatsu." Izuru looked down upon Grimmjow's struggling form and was rewarded with a snarl. "It cannot be broken through sheer force. If you've ever encountered Renji Abarai's bankai, it is very similar to the phenomenon."

 _Abarai . . . Abarai_ , Grimmjow's mind whirred. He'd heard that name before. A mirage of faces of shinigami he'd seen forefronted his mind before it then clicked. Renji was the man with the red pineapple-colored head of hair, he believed. He was one of Kurosaki's friends.

His stomach tightened with hatred at the mere mention of the Substitute's name. "He's the one who fought Yylfordt, right?"

Izuru turned around, muttering, "Possibly." He pivoted towards the guards, who quickly rushed to tighten their hold around their charge. Grimmjow growled as he felt their hands around him again. There was nothing more he wanted to do than to shred their appendages into itty bitty pieces and bury their bodies in the sands of Hueco Mundo.

The lieutenant nodded at the men and took up a running stance. "The First Division barracks are a ways from here. Let's go."

A sudden burst of speed propelled Izuru forward and the guardsmen were not far behind him. Grimmjow watched in interest as the scenery passed by in a blur. In and out they went, flash stepping many paces at a time.

"Shunpō," Grimmjow was able to realize as the light breeze caused by the high speeds nipped against his cheeks. _It's even more like Sonído than I had thought._ Although, in Hueco Mundo, the desert winds would have completely shredded the thin skins of any shinigami had they used such a power.

He spat when a sakura petal from a nearby plant blew into his mouth. Stupid Soul Society and their damn trees. He was suddenly thankful for his home's unwelcoming environment. At least there, all the so-called 'trees' were barren.

There was no sound as Izuru and the guards traversed the interior of the Seireitei, save for the numerous voices as they passed by villages, squealing with life. Another fearsome opposite to Hueco Mundo's ghostlike cities.

Another abrupt stop. One of the guards grasping Grimmjow's collar pulled a little harder from the force of the standstill, and he could feel his throat tighten against the movement. A choking sound gurgled from his mouth. He felt a bit of his Arrancar 'mightier-than-thou' spirit waft back into his bones as he growled, "Watch it, bitch!"

The guard's grip slackened and he stared at Grimmjow through the small eye slits of his uniform's mask, unmoving. Emotionless, Ulquiorra-like eyes. He could spit.

Izuru turned to him, blue eyes flashing. "I hardly think you're in the position to give orders around here, Arrancar." He gave a monotonous sigh before looking ahead. "Anyways, we're here."

Grimmjow looked up to an enormous bronze-colored door with the emblem of a diamond with a single line inside it—the kanji for one. Strange, he didn't think shinigami would always feel the need to be so imposing. That was more of an Arrancar-like action—the assertion of dominance. Kill or be killed.

"The First Division barracks," Izuru explained to him, knocking on the door.

Many moments passed, and Grimmjow wondered if any pathetic life forms buzzing inside the building could feel his presence had fled. The idea was crushed as a low voice answered, "Who goes there?" Grimmjow rolled his eyes. Could they be any more cliché?

"Lieutenant Izuru Kira of the Third Division," the blond-haired man replied. "I'm here with the strange Arrancar found in our barracks."

Strange? How the hell was he strange? Compared to these weird-ass shinigami who used unbelievably complicated equipment to restrain people and had completely abnormal sword releases, he was perfectly normal. A strand of hair brushed against his now-mask free face. Perhaps, maybe he really was a bit of an oddity.

The doors creaked open on hinges begging to be oiled by an unseen force. Grimmjow watched curiously as the darkened hallway was illuminated by nearly invisible flicks of light, almost like a flame, as Izuru walked in. The guards, as usual, were not far behind, and in turn, neither was Grimmjow.

It was humiliating, really, being dragged into the enemy's stronghold, powerless and weak as they were. At the same time, they asserted a dominion over him at the present hour—stupid reiatsu rope. Stupid imprisonment. Stupid shinigami form. Stupid Aizen. How many times had he cursed that man already? Grimmjow gleaned it was far too many times—and still not enough.

He watched as slivers of eyes danced between the shadows. The owners of the eyes remained a mystery, and he garnered that they belonged to warriors designated to protect this place—the barracks and the Soul Society. The First Division—privy to the most skilled shinigami in all of the Seireitei, at least, that was what Aizen had told him. Could he truly take them down?

Grimmjow ground his teeth menacingly at the invisible faces that gazed down upon him. Fuck it, he would—he had to believe that much. For the sake of his honor—for the sake of his goddamned self. Aizen had thought Grimmjow would _join_ the shinigami in order to destroy him? _Holy shit_ , no.

When the time was right, he would do it.

He would kill them all.

Izuru stopped walking as the battalion approached another door, even larger than the first. It also had the kanji for "one" carved out in it, this time, in bas relief. Flames exuded off the character, and Grimmjow could feel an immense amount of reiatsu from the other side—enough to remind him of the Primera Espada, Coyote Starrk.

He felt his stomach heave and scowled. "Wha—what the hell is this place?"

"This is . . . ," Izuru began. "The office of the Captain-Commander, Genryūsai Yamamoto." He motioned for the guards to release the former-Espada. "This is where I leave you, Arrancar." He muttered a phrase under his breath and the rope that ensconced Grimmjow segmented and fell to the ground in pieces.

Grimmjow looked at the shredded rope and grinned, flexing his free fingers. He turned to the shinigami. His grin grew wider. "What's to say I don't bolt the fuck out of here right now?"

Izuru remained stoic and shook his head. "Do what you want, but you won't get very far—even if you know shunpō—especially with all the guardsmen. The First Division are far from slackers in the realm of combat."

Damn. He was right. Speed was almost as necessary as breathing when it came to battle—something Grimmjow didn't have right now. Nevertheless, there were always alternatives. Didn't mean he couldn't punch his way out.

"I bet I could take them on." Grimmjow's confidence in his skills was unending, but even _his_ voice had a slight waver to it. All shinigami had a Zanpakutō, right? He couldn't suffer another humiliating defeat like he did with Izuru's shikai, again.

Izuru crossed his hands, and Grimmjow had flashbacks to when he had incanted some spell to restrain him. Bakudō, was it? His hand flexed toward his sword. He knew it was pointless, but if Izuru wanted a fight, he would get one.

"If you do not go in that room this instant, I will be forced to use Hainawa on you, again." Izuru tone was noncompliant.

Grimmjow took in an annoyed breath. He saw no way out. Fuck this.

He growled and stepped towards the massive reiatsu.

Fuck his life.

* * *

Grimmjow creaked the door closed, and stood in the doorway, silent. Defiant. The powerful aura the permeated the room caused him to instantly remember the times when he had stood before Aizen. It angered him. How many times would he have to kneel in front of some higher power before he was upheld as king? How many shinigami would have authority over him before he himself would rule? This was twice now. He swore that there would not be a third.

The reiatsu that filtered through the air held a weight even more cumbersome than it had been before he had even entered the office. This 'Captain-Commander' was powerful, that much was obvious. His reiatsu was almost harrowing, almost warm, almost overwhelming, and undoubtedly deadly. Grimmjow could not afford to mess around.

The thunderous sound of a throat clearing echoed through the room.

Grimmjow could tell that that was his cue. Probably. He walked forward, his back arched in a feline slouch. Respect was definitely due, he knew that, but this small act of rebellion was enough to satiate his humiliation for a spell.

The man in front of him, seated on a lowly tatami mat was far from what he expected the high and mighty 'Captain-Commander' to look like. He was old and wizened, an X-shaped scar crisscrossing his forehead; flames composed of reiatsu exuded off of him. His dark red eyes were challenging and an unending picture book to the bloodshed he had witnessed. Grimmjow was almost impressed.

Next to him, stood a man who exuded a strenuous amount of reiatsu, but was nothing when compared to the Captain-Commander's. He donned silver-white hair, a thin, handlebar mustache and pupilless eyes that did nothing to ease Grimmjow's nerves. _His lieutenant_ , he realized.

The Captain-Commander was first to speak. "What is your name, Arrancar?"

"Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez," he answered. His voice was rough and obstinate; there would be no compliance, but he was not the one one who had any say in that.

The old man closed his eyes. "Why have you come here, Grimmjow?"

"I was sent here," he grumbled. "By Aizen."

Silence echoed in the room for a few moments, and Grimmjow wondered if he stood in the presence of such reiatsu for long enough, it would kill him. The pressure was so great it certainly felt like it.

"Captain Kurotsuchi has informed me that you were altered by the Hōgyoku. You have no mask nor Hollow hole," the Captain-Commander began, knowingly. He seemed to almost ignore Grimmjow's answer. How many times would higher-ups ignore what he had to say? "Calling you an Arrancar would be inaccurate." He peered at Grimmjow with a piercing glare. "If you are not an Arrancar, then what are you?"

Grimmjow did not know where this was going. He gulped back the bile in his throat. "A shinigami."

The lieutenant's eyes flew open in surprise, but the Captain-Commander remained at ease. "Are you to fight with the Gotei 13?" The reiatsu in the room rose and he felt an unseen vise from around his neck. _Reiatsu_ _, so much reiatsu_. "Or will you die by us?"

A torrent of emotions hurricaned through his mind. Rage, anger, fury, all the same. He would kill them first, but he wasn't stupid enough to say it. Another truth exited his lips instead. "I'm going to kill Aizen."

The Captain-Commander nodded, and the pressure around his throat diminished. "You are his insubordinate, then."

"If you want to call it that." Grimmjow massaged his neck. _He'd_ definitely call it that, but who knew what the shinigami would?

"Saskibe." The old man motioned his lieutenant toward Grimmjow.

Grimmjow watched as the mustached man walked closer and closer to him, unsheathing his weapon. The reiatsu in the room grew to a point where Grimmjow felt his legs buckle over and felt blood on his tongue. "What the—what the hell?" His eyes grew wide as Sasakibe brought the sword over him. Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is not how he wanted to die—not by a shinigami's hand. He was going to be king—going to kill Aizen—he couldn't—couldn't die now!

Saskibe sliced the sword downward, directly over Grimmjow's spinal cord. He braced for pain, and a howl was ready on his tongue but felt nothing. A harrowing moment later, his coat fell into two halves onto the ground. The lieutenant sheathed his sword and walked to his place next to the Captain-Commander.

Grimmjow ran a hand down his bare back and twisted to see if there was any blood. He had no hierro, so if the man had wanted to, he could have left a mark. There was nothing. He did a double-take when he realized that instead of the badass-looking 6 imprinted onto his back, there was an "X" composed of small images of the kanji for "two" in its place. Had Aizen done that to prove he wasn't the Sexta anymore? But why the "X"?

"You wield the 'Hankō-tekina', the 'X'-shaped mark of a rebellious insubordinate. Kurotsuchi gleans that it was placed there by Sōsuke Aizen. If you are truly a rebellious insubordinate, that proves your previous answer to be true." The Captain-Commander's eyes narrowed. "But that also proves you dangerous. A troublemaker in Hueco Mundo is a troublemaker in the Soul Society."

"I'm _going_ to kill Aizen," Grimmjow repeated, more fervently this time. "I don't need the Soul Society's help for that."

The Captain-Commander raised an eyebrow. "And how do you plan to go about killing Aizen?"

He placed a hand on the hilt of his sword and drew it slowly. "What do you think?"

The old man didn't look impressed. "Your sword is merely an Asauchi. You could not even kill a ranking officer."

Grimmjow glanced at his sword in disbelief. It was the same blade he'd used to slay countless Hollows and reap multitudinous lives. How the _fuck_ could it not slit a ranking officer's throat? "What the hell are you saying?"

"Your Zanpakutō has no power; there has been no infusion of your soul, no jinzen practiced. It is akin to those wielded by students from the Shin'ō Academy. Shikai, bankai, it has nothing." The Captain-Commander looked at him placidly. "You expect to defeat Sōsuke Aizen with that?"

His sword was like that of a _student's_? How could that be? An Arrancar's sword was his _life_ , his _history_. It's where his ultimate attack was stored, his original form, his Ressureción. It's where _he_ was stored. Could the Hōgyoku really take all that away as it turned him into a shinigami? This fueled his drive. Aizen. Was. Going. To. Fucking. Die.

He was fucking going to die for taking everything from him. For taking away everything Grimmjow had worked for. Taking his prowess and his skill.

The Captain-Commander's next words interrupted his rampage. "Can you shunpō, Grimmjow?"

"No." His fight with Izuru had proved that much.

A grimace graced the old man's face. "Then your hand-to-hand combat skills will be greatly diminished," he said, "and am I wrong to assume that you know no kidō, either?"

Grimmjow's silence was his answer. Speaking to the Captain-Commander allowed him to realize that he truly was a shitty shinigami. A kickass Arrancar? Hell, yes. But he was truly a noob in the realms of shinigami combat. Aizen really knew how to make a man suffer.

The Captain-Commander did not speak for a few minutes more. His eyes closed and he tapped his cane on the ground, mulling something over. It made Grimmjow nervous, actually. He had no idea what was going to happen to him, and the man's turtle-like pace was not helping. His future was merely a cloud of darkness with Aizen's severed head floating around there somewhere now.

"Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez," the Captain-Commander finally said, his eyes glossed in steel. "Fight with us. We will train you in the necessary skills needed to kill Aizen and enlighten you in the ways of a shinigami."

A snarl explored Grimmjow's mouth. "I would never fight with you. I'm a Hollow, and you're a shinigami. We battle. We kill each other. That's how it's always been and that's how it will always be!"

The flames surrounding the old man grew in size and the reiatsu thickened. Grimmjow could feel his stomach tighten and his skin stretch. Blood stained the legs of his hakama.

"Then," the Captain-Commander thundered. "That is how it will be. You will not die as an Arrancar, for you are not, but as one who challenges the Gotei 13!"

Grimmjow felt the crushing weight double, no, triple. The bones in his legs gave way and he fell to the floor in a heap. Fuck. The pressure continued and continued, Grimmjow slowly succumbing to the feeling of being overpowered. Damn it, this was the second time he felt like he was going to die in this room. This time he knew death was inevitable and the rage bubbling up inside of him started to dissipate into nothing. _Damn Captain-Commander's so powerful_ , he thought, as the edges of his vision began to darken.

Suddenly, the pressure stopped and started to wane. "Fight for us and the charges against you will be erased."

His tongue, bloodied and red, somehow managed to spit out, "What charges?"

"Your men attacked Captain Hitsugaya, Lieutenant Matsumoto, Lieutenant Abarai, Third Seat Madarame and you yourself incapacitated Lieutenant Kuchiki. You also attacked Ichigo Kurosaki," the Captain-Commander replied.

Grimmjow couldn't believe it. His life for training? To kill Aizen? To ally with the shinigami? _To kill Aizen_? It was a completely shit-tastic deal. He had more pride than that . . . right? His mind began to waver. Would allying with the enemies be worth it if he was able to dismember his former master? He glanced at his bloodied wounds and tried to think through the pain. If the shinigami could imbue this much torture on him if he wasn't to follow thier orders . . . was it worth it? _Was it worth it_? He could always kill them all later.

"Fine."


End file.
